But Ruthie had trained her people well—except for me—and they were used to working alone. They continued to do so with no input or management on my part. As a result, the federation had kept chugging along pretty smoothly, considering.
The motel clerk appeared as if he’d just come in from a three-week fly-fishing excursion. His face and arms were fried the shade of an overripe strawberry. He had to have a hundred mosquito bites. He still smelled of fish, and I could swear there were a few entrails hanging off his seed cap.
He couldn’t stop staring at me. I wondered if I was the first non-Caucasian to walk through his door this year.
“Miss,” he began.
“I’m Egyptian,” I said in an attempt to stave off the usual questions about my nationality. Since I got them in Milwaukee—a town where around forty percent of the population was African American—I was certain I’d get them here.
“Oh. Ah. Well. Ain’t that nice? I was gonna say you’ve got something there behind yer ear.” He pointed.
I swiped a glob of draugar off my neck then casually wiped it on my jeans. “Deerfly,” I said, hoping like hell they had them here.
“Bastards,” the man muttered, and spit a brown stream of tobacco juice into a cup at his elbow.
I was a little embarrassed that I’d expected the guy to question if I was black. I’d been asked that all my life, and I hated it. Not because I didn’t want to be seen as African American. Ruthie had been, after all, and I’d wanted nothing more than to be exactly like her—until I was.
No, it had bothered me then because I hadn’t known who my parents were. I had no idea why I looked the way I did, and I hadn’t wanted to be reminded of that. Of course once I’d met my mother, I’d only wanted a return to my blissful state of ignorance.
“You doin’ some sightseeing?” the man asked.
“Mmm,” I said, eyeing the key in his hand. Why didn’t he just hand it over?
“ ’Cause if ye are, it’s good ye aren’t white.”
My gaze flicked from the key to his face. “Excuse me?”
“There are a lot of places ‘round here that are cursed for the white man.”
“Sure there are.”
He grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. Why on earth would someone do that on purpose? “You can hardly blame the Sioux for being teed off.”
“Interesting position for a white man.”
“My great-great-great-granny was Lakota.”
My ears perked up as the curse got a whole lot more interesting. “Really?” I’d discovered that family legends often held the truth.
“Really. You know the government stole the Black Hills from the People.”
“I heard something about that.”
He grinned that terrible grin again. “They call the hills Paha Sapa, and they’re sacred. In the Treaty of Fort Laramie the Sioux were given ownership. But then gold was discovered.”
“And suddenly the land that was useless enough to give to the Indians wasn’t so useless anymore.”
“You’ve heard the story?”
“It’s common enough. They found oil in Indian Territory. Shazaam. Not so Indian anymore.”
The clerk nodded. “White men started pourin’ into the Black Hills. Custer even led an expedition in 1874. Carved his name right into the peak of Inyan Kara. You can still see it. G. CUSTER. ’74. According to my granny, the mountain was angry. Ever since then, any white man steps foot on Inyan Kara is cursed.”
“You believe that?”
“Didn’t work out too well for Custer.”
“That’s because he was a moron,” I muttered.
“That too,” the clerk agreed. “Split his force. Underestimated the enemy. Got hisself surrounded. Him a West Point man, too. Though he did graduate at the bottom of the class.”
My regard for the clerk increased. I should know better than to judge by appearance. This guy knew a thing or two.
“Despite the protests of the Indians,” he continued, “white men began to mine for gold. When the Cheyenne joined the Sioux and they all kicked some ass, the government said the Sioux had broken the treaty and took the Black Hills away.”
“What about a reparation lawsuit?” I asked.
“United States Versus the Sioux Nation of Indians, 1980. Supreme Court ruled the Black Hills were illegally confiscated, and the Sioux should be paid what they were worth in 1874 plus interest—around a hundred and six million dollars.” His eyes actually twinkled.
“Go on,” I urged. I wanted to hear the rest almost as much as he wanted to tell it to me.
“Sioux refused to accept the money. Wanted their sacred hills back.”
“But most of it’s divided into national parks,” I mused.
“Few state parks, too. So them gettin’ back their land . . . wasn’t happenin’.”
“And the money?”
“Sits in the bank. Last I heard it had grown to over seven hundred fifty million dollars. And the Sioux won’t touch it even though they’re one of the poorest people in the country.”
“What about the curse?”
“Stays in force until the hills again belong to the People.”
“That could be a while.”
He nodded. “So it’s good yer—what did ye say? Ethiopian?”
“Egyptian.”
The clerk shrugged.